The Young and Stupid
by rosso-bass
Summary: Niko Bellic was ruined by the war in his homeland. He would never forget what he saw, or what he did. The story of Niko and the Bosnian War. Rated M for Language.
1. Chapter 1 Prologue

The Young and Stupid

By rossobass

AN: The material of Grand Theft Auto, including the characters of this story, is not mine, I didn't create it, I don't own Rockstar property, etc.

Chapter 1 – Prologue

Nikolai Bellic stood with his back to the sea, facing a man who wriggled on the ground, his hands bound. This was Darko Brevic.

Some twelve years ago, Niko had served in a drafted band of teenage Serbian soldiers during the Bosnian War. Their unit had been given orders to murder Bosnian civilians. Once they had disobeyed their orders, they had been labeled as renegades. This man, as Niko had discovered, betrayed their unit to their superiors. They were located, and facing guns from their own countrymen, they lied down in a ditch, and they were all shot. Niko himself had taken a bullet through his back and another in his arm, but had survived, walking some 30 kilometers on the edge of death after struggling to stay alive an entire day and night in the ditch where his dead comrades lay with him.

Two had not been with the unit that day: Florian Cravic, and Darko Brevic. Niko had already found Florian, who had revealed himself a homosexual, and who had been sincere in telling Niko that he had had nothing to do with the betrayal of their unit. This of course, left only Darko.

Now, with the man writhing in front of him, he felt the accumulation of all the dogging feelings of depression, torment, and lust for revenge. He remembered crawling out of that blood-moistened ditch in Bosnia, and looking down at his dead comrades, already attracting flies. Even from behind, he recognized them. Hatred permeated Niko, he screamed a few of their names at Darko.

"Dragan?! Mijo, Mita?! Mogadanastavic! Goran?! Svijo?!" He wanted Darko to answer for his sins, to give some reason that would negate his crime.

"Goran, Mogadanastavic?" Darko rasped. "They deserved it! They killed my FUCKING neighbors! I did it, because of shit. Because of _shit!_"

"So that makes it ok to stab your friends in the back?!" Niko spat. He jumped forward and grabbed Darko under the collar, dragging his face to within an inch of his own.

"How much?!" Niko screamed. "How much did they give you?!" Darko laughed with a vitality surprising to his weakened appearance.

"A thousand," he replied while laughing. Niko released Darko in horror, bringing his hands to the sides of his head, turning away from Darko and back again.

"You killed my friends for a thousand dollars!" He cried in disbelief.

"How much does it cost to kill a man." Darko said emotionlessly. Niko's anger purged over his shock once more.

"You ruined me, you FUCK!" He screamed.

"I had problems," Darko replied, dismissing the comment.

"You're a fucking junkie!"

"Kill me then!" He cried pathetically, dropping to his knees. "Trust me… you'd be doing me a favor." Niko reached inside his suit jacket, producing a pistol, a simple 9mm. Reaching inside his pants pocket, he found a loaded clip. He snapped it into place in the gun's butt and leveled it on Darko's face as he stood again. His finger hesitated on the trigger.

He saw a glint of the boy he knew in Darko's dulled eyes. He remembered seeing him for the first time, and quickly, he remembered everything that had happened. He remembered his mother, his father, his brother, letters from Roman, political dysfunction in Yugoslavia, his unit, his friends that became his brothers. Suddenly, he remembered the war.


	2. Chapter 2 Rabas

The Young and Stupid

AN: The material of Grand Theft Auto, including the characters of this story, is not mine, I didn't create it, I don't own Rockstar property, etc.

Chapter 2 – Rabas

Niko's mother, Milica, placed two bowls of bran cereal on an oak table, one for Niko, and his older brother Aleksandar. She listened a moment to the radio, which reported an organization of armed response to Bosnia's recent declaration of independence. She clucked her tongue and turned the radio off.

"Mother?" Aleksandar asked. "Spoon?"

"Oh, sorry Alek," she said, and hurried to get them each a spoon, fishing through a wooden cabinet full of aged dishes and various other dinnerware. Besides the kitchen, the Bellic residence, being a low-income rural house in the farming community of Rabas, had only four other rooms: a bedroom for the widowed Mrs. Bellic, another for the two boys, one bathroom, and a modest living room.

Aleksandar, now 19 years old, had left the house a year earlier to pursue an education, but amid the political chaos, and the drink-induced death of his father, Karmalaf Bellic, he decided to return home and work the Bellic's land, supporting his mother and little brother, who was younger by two years. It was not the happiest situation for the family, but they were suddenly able to enjoy life better in the absence of Karmalaf, a fact for which they all felt a bit guilty.

Karmalaf, though a good worker throughout his life, had become a slave to the bottle, drinking endlessly. In his nearly perpetual drunken stupor, he would beat every member of the family, sometimes to the point where his chosen victim was knocked unconscious. Once he became old enough, Aleksandar began to fight his father once he became violent. The fights became increasingly frequent and violent, and at the urging of his mother, Aleksandar left the home the day he became 18. With no opposition to his ways, Karmalaf's drinking habits deepened even further until, one morning, Milica found him in his field in a puddle of his own vomit, dead. That had been three months ago, at the opening of 1992. Now, the remainder of the family was reunited, though the circumstances left some to be desired.

The Bellic brothers had inherited their father's appearance, and looked nearly identical, save for Aleksandar's more mature physical build, facial hair, and Niko's darker, mid-length hair. Besides this, they both were unmistakably Karmalaf's sons, though neither carried a bottle of vodka as if it were a newborn.

They both ate in silence as Milica scrubbed dishes clean in the sink. Once they were both finished, Aleksandar stood up and walked into the room that he and Niko were once again sharing.

"Nikolai," he called from inside. "Get your boots on." Niko groaned. This meant more farm work. He was used to the work, and knew the value of work, but the workload had doubled since the passing 

of their father, and it was strenuous labor, without a doubt. He seated himself on a handcrafted bench beside the front door. He began pulling on his worn leather boots, and was in the process of lacing them when there was a knock at the door. Niko stood to answer the knock, but before he could lay hand on the knob, the door opened, nearly hitting him as it swung open. He stepped back in surprise.

In walked a man in a green Yugoslavian Army captain's uniform, his cap underneath his crooked arm. Behind him came two standard soldiers, each shouldered with AK-47s. Niko's mother gasped in shock and covered her mouth while quickly shutting off the running water.

Aleksandar quickly entered the kitchen after hearing the noise. The captain lifted a halting hand to him, and he stopped, partly in surprise at the situation.

"Karmalaf Bellic?" the captain demanded of Aleksandar. Aleksandar responded promptly.

"No sir, my father. He died three months ago."

"Your name, and how old are you?" the captain snapped.

"Aleksandar Bellic," he replied. "Nineteen years, sir." The captain looked him up and down a moment before making a hand gesture to his two men.

"You're coming with us, Aleksandar Bellic. Now," he said forcefully. Milica began to protest.

"Where are you taking him?! What are you doing with him!" She cried impulsively.

"Silence, woman!" The captain hissed. Niko's mother quieted, but tears welled in her dark eyes. He seemed to consider something for a moment before speaking.

"Bosnia and Herzegovina have declared independence from Yugoslavia." The captain began. "President Milosevic has ordered that the rebellion be crushed. Your son is joining the army in this noble task, do not object, be proud." Her hands again came to her mouth, and a tear escaped each of her eyes, but she kept silent. The captain was about to have his guards take Aleksandar, but he stopped, turning to Niko, sizing him up.

"You?" he asked.

"Nikolai," he said simply. The captain's jaw stiffened; Niko realized his mistake.

"Nikolai, sir," He corrected. The captain nodded approvingly.

"How old are you?" the captain asked.

"Seventeen, sir," he replied nervously. He didn't like the direction this was going and he resisted the urge to start fidgeting or shifting about. The captain pondered a minute in silence.

"Alright," he said to the guards. "Him too."

"What!" his mother shrieked, and rushed over, grabbing Niko in her arms. She continued her frenzied screams. "No! He's not old enough! You heard, seventeen!"

Without a word, the captain raised his hand and backhanded Milica, tearing her free of Niko, who was on the verge of panic. Aleksandar lunged with a shout, grabbing the inside of the captain's collar with one hand, raising the other in a fist. With lightning speed, Aleksandar struck him twice in the face, breaking his nose. The captain's guards moved to beat Aleksandar down, but Alek reached back, grabbing the handle of a vegetable knife. The guards hurriedly raised their rifles and fired.

Aleksandar seemed to dance as bullets took him through his torso, his arms bouncing out to either side as he staggered backwards onto the kitchen counter, spattered with his blood. The men stopped firing, and Aleksandar slid down the counter, trying to find a grip as blood oozed out of his mouth. Niko's mother was shrieking hysterically, drowning out screams from outside which had resulted from the gunfire.

Niko stood frozen as his mother scurried over, screaming frantically and clutching Aleksandar's face in her hands. He was already dead, his hand locked in a deathgrip on the knife.

"Goddammit!" the captain spat, holding a hand under his bleeding nose. "Dog shit!" he yelled, and spat on Aleksandar as his hysterical mother clutched her son's body to her own, bloodying her blouse.

"Fuck!" The captain spat again. "We were supposed to do this quietly! Grab him, let's go!" The guard nearest Niko moved towards him. Niko awoke from his stupor, and instinctively punched the guard at the base of his jaw. The guard yelled in pain as Niko attacked him, punching and yelling gibberish. The other guard knocked him on the forehead with the butt of his rifle, rendering Niko only partially conscious. The two guards roughly dragged him outside to a 70's issue army transport truck, into which they roughly threw him. Niko, head swimming tried to push himself up amid other young men from the surrounding area. The truck roared to life and began driving away.

As they began to pick up speed, Niko heard his mother again, screaming with the same intensity. He struggled, pulling himself onto the truck's tailgate. His mother was trotting behind the truck, one hand outstretched, the other clenched to her blood-soaked bosom. The truck accelerated, and Niko saw his mother collapse to her knees, screaming and pulling her hair.

It was the last thing he saw before he lost consciousness.


	3. Chapter 3 First Blood

The Young and Stupid

**AN: The material of Grand Theft Auto, including the characters of this story, is not mine, I didn't create it, I don't own Rockstar property, etc.**

Chapter 3 – First Blood

After being taken from Rabas, Niko was entered in a hasty and clumsy training program. It lasted only two weeks, and consisted largely of learning how to use a gun, and how to use a grenade. No specialization was taught, nor were basic techniques in teamwork, or simple battlefield survival. There was, however, a heavy emphasis on propaganda, promoting Serbian nationalism, speaking down on Bosnians, Croats, and other ethnicities, particularly muslims.

They were more or less being trained to die, to be thrown into a grinder, and to do so with enthusiasm.

Niko had been quiet since his forced inauguration into the army. Despite his best efforts, he was unable to keep his mind from what had happened with his departure. His brother was dead, killed in front of his eyes. His mother was now completely alone, faced with burying her own son, an unimaginable nightmare for any mother. Niko partly wondered if she had been overtaken by grief and loneliness, and simply put herself out of her misery. He doubted it, as she was a deeply religious woman, but the fact remained that she had little left in life: no husband, one son in his grave, and the other likely heading towards his own.

Now, the ten men of his squad were piled in an army transport truck, being transported to a Bosnian city directly across the Drina River. Establishing a foothold within Bosnian territory was vital to the Serbian campaign. Bosnian and Herzegovinian radicals had been killing ethnic Serbs in Bosnian cities, killing innocents in high number, a fact which the Serbian military drove into each soldier's head endlessly. They were, as they were told, liberating their own people.

It was nighttime, with a waning crescent moon overhead. They were moving under cover of night, as guerilla attacks were less likely in the dark hours of the morning. They were clothed in bluish-gray Russian-issue camouflage, and an aged but effective helmet dating back to the height of the Cold War. Each was equipped with an AK-47, a sidearm, and two frag grenades. To hear it said, they were much better equipped than the rebels.

Niko was half dozing, his head kinked over onto his shoulder, when the man to his left nudged him awake. It was Vladislas Dragan, a young man his age, who had been "conscripted" from a nearby community. Of those of his new squad, Dragan, and another named Florian Cravic, who also came from Rabas, had become his friends.

"Niko," Dragan said over the rumbling of the engine. "We will be deploying soon. Here, take a drink, get woken up. Pass to Florian." Dragan passed Niko a flask, and he took a deep, throaty gulp. The burn of quality vodka brought him to his senses. He stretched his limbs as much as the confined space 

would allow, and he was back to a mostly alerted status. He nudged Florian awake beside him. Florian groaned.

"Florian," Niko said. "We're going in, take this and wake up, pass it back after you get a swallow." Florian took a smaller drink of the flask and coughed, pounding his chest with a clenched fist. He passed the flask back. Niko took another quick swallow and passed it back to Dragan, who also took a drink, before tightening the lid and placing it in his breast pocket

"That's genuine Russian water friend," Dragan commented. "My old father sent it with me when the soldiers came. The old man said it cost about as much as his wife!" Niko chuckled a bit with Dragan. He was surprised to hear his own laugh, as he'd not heard it in the past two weeks. He found it odd that he chose now to laugh, when he was possibly about to die. They rode for awhile yet, the only sound being the continuous rumble of the engine. After a time, a captain in the front seat opened a glass window panel between the cab and bed.

"Make sure your guns are loaded boys, you will need it. We are dropping you off in a few minutes," the captain said. He closed the panel again, and proceeded to light a cigar with a match. Another minute of uneventful riding passed as the teenage soldiers in the bed of the truck checked each of their weapons. One boy, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed young man named Sergei Goran, reached inside his combat jacket and pinched a cross attached to his neck. He brought it to his lips and kissed it before dropping it into his shirt again.

A dull thud, faint, but clearly audible was heard. Each soldier looked up, trying to read the expressions of his squad mates, looking for signs of fear, to know that they were not the only frightened ones. None of them had seen combat before, save their captain, and he saw no cause to try and encourage them just yet.

Another minute passed accompanied by another thud, deeper this time. Within the next minute, three similar thuds were heard, as well as the faint but unmistakable chatter of gunfire. They were close. The captain opened the glass panel again, tossing his half-smoked cigar out the passenger-side window.

"Keep your damn head down!" he said, elevating his voice. "Heroics won't be getting you any medals, so don't bother. We're getting out in about 30 seconds. Remember you're fighting for Serbia." He closed the panel again. The boys said nothing, only checked their rifles a last time. Soon, the thuds became roars, the sounds of explosions, and the volume of the gunfire rose sharply. In the cab, Niko noticed the captain loading a clip into a pistol and saying something to the driver.

The truck slowed and stopped abruptly. The captain hurriedly exited.

"Out, out out!" he yelled. Two-by-two, they jumped from the truck, collecting at the base of a nearby hill. The truck immediately reversed, turned, and began driving away, red brake lights marking its progress against the black of night.

Their captain organized them, and ordered them up the hill, over which tracers streamed every few seconds.

"Go!" Their captain yelled. "Go!" They yelled in unison, and broke into a run up the hill. Cold adrenaline shot through his system, his hearing deafened for an instant before becoming much sharper, his legs worked automatically. He was on the front line of the ten-man block. As they reached the crest, a mortar shell exploded ten meters in front of them. Niko instinctively ducked while still running. He looked up.

In front of them, a street, bordered by two-story buildings and storefronts, was blocked with cement road barriers. The Rebels had barricaded themselves behind these barriers, shooting from behind them. Two men had a machine-gun turret mounted on one of the barriers, and were feeding a continuous stream of bullets their way. Ahead, crouched behind more barriers, there were several soldiers in Serbian uniform, a dead soldier lay near them, an exit wound the size of a small plate was clearly visible on his back.

The unit continued to run headlong into the gunfire. The man to Niko's right was cut down with a bullet to his thigh. When they had reached their comrades, they took cover behind the road barriers. A man in a sky-blue beret flagged their captain, who scurried over to him, pistol out and pointed at the sky. They were shouting to each other, yet Niko could still not hear what was being said. A grenade dropped over the barrier, too far to catch them in its blast radius. It exploded with a deafening boom, showering Niko and his squad mates with gravel and dirt. The captain, still hunkered down, came back to them and motioned them in, like some sort of sports huddle.

Niko could barely hear his captain's instructions, as his hearing was dominated by a loud, high-pitched ringing. Their captain seemed aware of this however, and shouted while making motions.

"We are to sweep around, and take the adjacent street!" he shouted, making a cutting motion with his hand to the North. "From there, we are to come behind the rebels, and neutralize them!" He turned to one of the squad.

"Mogadanastavic!" the captain called. "Take point!" This one, Josef Mogadanastavic, seemed to be a year Niko's senior. He was from the same town that Goran and Darko Brevic were from. There seemed to be a certain amount of contention between Darko Brevic and the other two, who were apparently close friends. However, Darko seemed not to let this distract him at the moment, he was loading his weapon. Mogadanastavic gave a salute to the captain and moved along the ground, still behind cover. They followed him through a bombed-out building, climbing over rubble and squeezing through a punctured wall. On the other side, it was quiet in comparison. There was no access to this street from where Niko's team had deployed. It was still under rebel control.

Josef paused at the edge of a shattered doorway, and quickly poked his head out, scanning. He made a gesture with his head, and ventured out into the street, crouching behind several cars sitting end to end. This street, with a few exceptions, seemed relatively untouched by artillery or explosives. They all managed to move to cover without being seen.

As their captain followed, hurried shouting was heard from down the street, followed closely by gunfire. The captain cried out and fell. A boy a full year younger than Niko, a Russian-looking boy named Andrej Svijo reached out with surprising reaction speed, and struggled to pull the captain in, who was disoriented but using his legs to push. Dragan helped Svijo drag the captain to safety, who struggled to push himself up against the tire of the car, which was now under a hail of fire. He put his finger to the wound in his side and held them up, seeing blood. He cursed.

"Mogadanastavic, Bellic!" the captain called. "I will need to stay, I will slow you down! I trust you two to make sure you succeed!" The captain cocked his pistol and twisted, steadying himself on one knee. He quickly put his head above the car, using the trunk door as a rest. He fired twice with steady timing. He looked to the squad hurriedly.

"Hurry! Go! I only have so many bullets!" the captain yelled.

"Cover me, Niko," Josef said. Niko raised his rifle and pointed it down the street. He could faintly see Bosnian soldiers, uniformed. He fired at one who stood fully upright, and had noticed Josef begin to move from cover. Niko pulled the trigger twice in quick succession. The man went down, but Niko was unable to determine if he had taken cover or if he had been hit by Niko's fire. A steady stream of bullets suddenly began hitting the car, shattering the windshield near Niko's face. He ducked. The captain's pistol sounded again, and the fire ceased.

Niko checked Josef's progress. He had made it to the side of a building some fifty yards from the Bosnian's emplacement. He motioned Niko over.

"Covering fire!" Niko yelled, and burst from cover at a full run. A fresh supply of adrenaline hit him, and his legs pumped effortlessly, even as he heard the whiz of bullets narrowly missing him. Before he understood his progress, his back slammed into the wall where Josef stood. Two rifles now fired a hail of bullets from the car on the Bosnians as another soldier rushed over, Florian this time. One of the firing rifles dropped, and the soldier carrying it ran from cover.

A loud clang resounded as sparks leapt from the soldier's helmet. He dropped, falling backwards. He writhed on the ground, still alive. Niko recognized the bright red hair, even in the dim moonlight.

"Mijo!" he called. Stanko Mijo was one of the oldest soldiers of the group. He was nineteen, and while irritable and solitary, many of the unit saw him as something of a big brother figure. In accordance with this, Niko was painfully reminded of Aleksandar by Mijo.

"Niko!" Josef called. "Get Mijo up here! I will cover you! Wait!" Josef grabbed a grenade from his combat jacket, unpinned it, and tossed it blindly around the corner. A short moment later, it exploded. Niko ran towards Mijo, still wriggling helplessly. He heard gunfire, but knew nothing of where it was coming from. He slid along loose dirt to Mijo, kicking up a small cloud. He grabbed Mijo's left arm and hefted the man's larger body onto his own.

He heard panicked shouts coming from his comrades behind him, unsure if he had the physical strength to carry Mijo. However, Niko's strength was still bolstered by a continuous feed of adrenaline. With only some difficulty, he stood and began to run back towards the wall, amid blinding flashes from guns down the street.

Another soldier, Viktor Solovic, ran with him, passing him up. Niko made it to safety and eased Mijo to the ground before examining him. A bullet had hit his helmet, tearing a hole through it. Niko took off the helmet and checked his scalp. The flesh was seared where the bullet had entered his helmet, but he was not hit by the bullet itself. He was in shock at the moment, but he would live. Niko put Mijo's helmet back on. Now, only two soldiers remained behind the car with the captain, who was still firing periodically.

"Alright!" Josef yelled to the squad while motioning to Dragan and Svijo to remain stationary. "In through there!" He pointed to a narrow alley between a concrete wall and the red-brick building they were using as cover. A grenade landed nearby with a distinctive clank.

"Down!" Josef screamed. He kicked the grenade, a second later, it exploded at the top of its arc. "Now get in!" They streamed into the alley, Petar Goran first. They hurried through single file, seemingly all the way down the street. However, when they came out and surveyed their position on the street, they discovered they were behind the Bosnians, and only some twenty yards away. They quietly accumulated, and Josef gave them their orders: to break from cover as soon as they heard the frags explode.

Niko and Josef marked their targets. The Bosnians were clustered in four main areas, there were about fifteen of them. Josef held up three fingers, and counted down. As soon as Josef's last finger closed into his fist, Niko unpinned and threw, quickly ducking back behind cover. There were panicked shouts, cut off by two near-simultaneous booms. They ran out into the street, some firing recklessly. Between them, the survivors of the grenades were killed quickly.

Down the street, Dragan and Svijo stood up and waved. Dragan motioned towards the captain and grabbed the man, who was likely very weak by now, he began to help him away, taking him through the bombed-out building they had first come through. Svijo quickly ran up the street, rifle tucked under his arm. He vaulted over the barriers which the Bosnians had hid behind, and joined them, panting.

"Mogadanastavic!" Niko called. Josef turned and Niko walked up to him. "If the men on the other side hear that there is no more firing on this side, they will know we took this position. We need to move now, yes?"

"Yes, you're right Bellic," He motioned the team together and they rallied around him as they entered a hotel on the south side of the street. On the ground floor, there was an empty bar. Some of the bottles were broken, but many remained intact. As they came through to the other side of the hotel, which was on the north side of the street they had first entered, Niko looked back. He saw Darko Brevic, easily recognizable by his gangly stature, open a bottle of whiskey and take a deep swig. Niko crept back past the others and cuffed him on the jaw as he finished his drink.

"You fucking idiot!" Niko hissed. "Where the FUCK do you think we are?!" Darko stared back hatefully but said nothing. Niko gave him a clap on the helmet, something of an apology, and rejoined Josef at the front. They were nearly level with the Bosnians on this side. It would be harder to frag without being spotted. They would need to simply try and clear as fast as they could.

The unit collected, keeping under view of the windows. One group, Niko's group, would stay and fire as Josef's group moved into the street to quickly kill any who might take cover. They acted quickly.

Josef's group, led by Solovic, ran out. Niko and the three left to him stood and began firing, tearing away what remained of the window. Solovic took a bullet through the face. The back of his head exploded, spraying Niko and Svijo with a heavy arterial spray. Solovic dropped instantly, and Niko continued firing, despite his shock.

It was over in seconds. Another had taken a bullet just above the naval. It was Florian. The Serbian soldiers down the street, beleaguered, cheered meekly but enthusiastically. A medic ran up the street with a first aid kit. He examined Florian, who was conscious but beginning to become hysterical. The medic was calm.

"God is merciful today," the medic said after a moment. "The bullet missed all his organs and exited out the back, missing his spine also. He will live. Niko was relieved to know that Florian was not in dire danger. Florian also calmed considerably, and the medic began to care for him. They were all shaken, some obviously more than others. Niko was coming down from his adrenaline rush now, and so felt unnaturally steady. Ignoring his comrades congratulating each other and admiring Josef, Niko looked back to Solovic, his face torn away by the bullet, bleeding into the gutter. No man had yet gone to collect him, his "sacrifice to Serbia" seemingly already forgotten.

A single thought came to Niko's mind. _God is merciful today, huh?_


	4. Chapter 4 Prisoners of War

The Young and Stupid

Chapter 4 – Prisoners of War

**AN: The material of Grand Theft Auto, including the characters of this story, is not mine, I didn't create it, I don't own Rockstar property, etc.**

It had taken an additional two days to completely take the town of Bisrid, as Niko had learned it was named. Niko's unit, with a wounded captain, one dead, and two wounded soldiers, had reached a low capacity, and was not deployed again during the taking of the city.

Florian had struggled the night he had taken the bullet, but had pulled through, and was recovering well already. Mita, who had taken a bullet to the thigh during the unit's additional charge, was still in rough condition, but the bullet had narrowly missed his femoral artery. Thus far, only Solovic had lost his life- miraculous considering the intensity of their virgin battle.

The captain was also recovering, but struggled to move. He was losing the unit's perception of him as their commander, as much of the unit now looked to Josef Mogadanastavic as their leader. This was due to the fact that the captain had remained behind while Mogadanastavic lead the team fearlessly as they braved the storm.

As such, they had little to do, and were tasked with defending the main outpost in the city. But the outpost had not come under direct attack, so the unit more or less loafed endlessly, scared into alertness occasionally by lone mortar rounds which would give a sharp whistle as warning, and explode nearby.

They were fed with an endless supply of propagandized news material: stories a bit too glamorous to take at face value: tales of unprecedented victories against huge odds. However, the stories coming down through the grapevine were equally incredible: stories of savage brutality by _Serbian_ soldiers. Niko knew how war was, he had seen that first-hand- he found it hard to believe that the Serbians were committing war crimes; they were simply fighting a war.

"Standby!" Someone called from the north point of the outpost, it sounded like Darko. Niko jolted out of his reflective stupor, and looked to the north. A man in Serbian uniform had turned onto the street aligned with the outpost, and was walking towards them.

"One of ours," Darko said, and lowered his rifle.

"Get down!" Josef called, and ducked behind the divider. The rest of the unit, dispersed along the walls of the garrison, took cover.

"What if he's a Bosnian in Serb uniform, eh?" Josef asked of Darko. "Nice distraction to get us all killed, huh?" Josef peered over the barrier and leveled his rifle on the newcomer, who had stopped upon seeing the activity of the garrison defenders.

"Announce yourself soldier!" Josef called. A moment's hesitation passed, but the soldier replied, raising his hands up.

"Sgt. Olovar Sivnic!" he called. "We've captured a group of rebels and we need you to keep guard!"

"Come closer, keep your hands up!" their captain called from behind. The sergeant entered the garrison. The captain patted him down and found his identification, which he judged to be correct. The captain nodded and the garrison defenders relaxed their guard.

"You can bring these prisoners," The captain said. The sergeant leaned in and whispered something to the captain while passing him a folded sheet of paper. The captain nodded stoically and dismissed the soldier who ran back from where he came. A minute later, a straight row of Bosnian rebels, hands tied behind them, filed into the street and towards the garrison. There were about 15 of them, ranging in age. A handful of Serbs ambled alongside them, rifles held in the crook of their arms, inattentive.

They marched the prisoners into the middle of the garrison and instructed them to kneel in a cluster.

"Good, we can handle it," the captain said. The new coming soldiers, irritated, marched back the way they came, having pawned off their assignment to Niko's group. Once the soldiers were well out of sight, the captain addressed the garrison defenders.

"Men, we've been given orders to execute these prisoners. We have no facilities to accommodate them, and on top of the fact that they outnumber us, they now know the location of our garrison. If one were to escape…" he trailed off. Niko's heart was pounding in his chest. He'd killed a man in combat, but execution was completely different. Killing in battle was… acceptable. Execution was murder. The captain continued to blather, but Niko was not listening. He was looking at the prisoners, and the sound of his pulse dominated his hearing. Two of Niko's comrades stepped forward and poked soldiers in the back with their rifles. The prisoners stood. The captain motioned down the alley, saying something. The soldiers and the prisoners began to move, Niko followed.

They didn't go far- only to an adjacent, but less visible street. The captain began distributing orders. He counted out five prisoners and instructed them to kneel in front of a city wall, facing away from the wall into the open street. Niko's shock subsided a degree, allowing him to hear and comprehend the captain's orders.

"Line up here," The captain said to the soldiers, scratching a line with his toe in the loose gravel. "Mogadanastavic, Bellic, here next to me." Josef and Niko stood side by side and three others lined up beside them while the other two kept guard over the other prisoners.

"Mogadanastavic," the captain said. With a pistol, he pointed at the first prisoner, a hairy middle-aged man with a graying beard. "Kill this man. Shoot him." Josef hesitated. The captain waited expectantly.

"Captain," Josef said. "This man is unarmed, he-" The captain whipped him in the face with the pistol, breaking Josef's nose. He fell down, clutching his face, which began to bleed heavily. The prisoner got to his feet and ran. His balance was thrown off by the binding of his hands, and he stumbled. The captain watched him nonchalantly for a moment before raising his pistol and shooting the man in the back. The prisoner fell mid-stride. His legs cycled slowly.

Svijo, guarding the other prisoners, bashed one in the face as he began to protest. It seemed the lot were on the verge of attempting to fight their captors, but order was restored. The captain walked to the wriggling man and raised his pistol. Niko looked away. One, two, three, four shots. He heard the captain's steps as he returned.

"_I_ am your captain," he said. "Not this fuck!" he kicked Josef back to the ground as he was rising to his feet.

"You do not question my orders," he continued. "And you _always_ address me with 'sir.'" He turned his attention back to the prisoners.

"Niko," he said. Niko tensed, waiting. "Kill that man." Niko raised his rifle, placing the sights over the face of the prisoner. The prisoner was probably ten years older than Niko, his eyes were dark. Niko placed his finger on the trigger and began to pull. The man looked up into Niko's eyes, and Niko froze. His eyes were not defiant, but not submissive.

"Will you fail me too, Nikolai?" the captain asked. Niko continued to hesitate, trying to will himself to pull the trigger. He heard a click behind him, and a hot piece of metal pressed against the back of his skull.

"Kill him, Bellic, or you die," the captain said. Niko looked again at the man. His expression was difficult to read, but it seemed resigned. He looked at Niko, understanding what Niko had to do, and accepting it. This somehow made it harder for Niko to kill him. His finger hesitated still.

He heard the faint clicking of the gun against his head, and realized the captain was pulling the trigger slowly, raising the hammer partially. Niko was a centimeter from death. The muscles in his torso seized. He shut his eyes and fired, firing five rounds. The gun lifted from his head. Niko opened his eyes slowly.

The prisoner was slumped against the wall behind him. Only one bullet had hit him, in the neck, it gushed violently. The prisoner gurgled, his eyes bulging towards the dreary sky, seemingly about to explode from his head. His tongue flailed as his jaw worked up and down. He struggled for a full minute, before releasing a gurgled moan, and lying still. Everything was silent. Niko could not even hear distant gunfire or explosions. He could no longer hear his heart, or his breath, or that of his companions. It was as if all sound had been purged from the Earth. Finally, the captain spoke.

"Good, Niko. Now raise your rifles. The remaining three men raised their rifles, frightened but unwilling to show any opposition.

"Fire," the captain said. Three more prisoners slumped to the Earth, bleeding out or dying on the spot. The captain called over another five prisoners. He told them to kneel on the bodies of the previous prisoners. One was praying in panic, babbling incoherently. On the captain's order, Niko put a bullet through the man's forehead. Arterial spray splattered across the wall behind him, he gasped, and fell sideways onto the man Josef had killed.

The final group, teary-eyed but less panicked than the second, kneeled before the wall. A final order from the captain, and the final prisoners died. They left the bodies where they were, heaped in front of a blood-splattered wall, and walked back to the garrison. Nothing left remained to be said, the captain had re-established his authority, and the boys had killed in cold-blood.

Once they manned the garrison once again, they remained silent the rest of the day, until night fell. Niko was posted with the first watch. He was glad, he wouldn't have fallen asleep anyway.

Seated on a stack of sandbags, he looked skyward. Ringed in a halo of stars, a new moon loomed, visible only by its exaggerated absence, marked by a perfect circle of black. Niko empathized with the new moon. He felt as if his heart had been erased, the only evidence of its having ever existed marked by a defined outline, an imprint of what had previously been there.


	5. Chapter 5 The Countryside

Chapter 5 – The Countryside

**AN: I don't own the characters, or Grand Theft Auto or Rockstar etc… Thanks to Kemurikat for the reviews! This chapter might seem a bit boring, but its more of a psychological plot-point. Thanks!**

Niko walked alongside an armored transport vehicle, AK gripped loosely in both hands. His unit was on its way to Sarajevo, the heart of Bosnia. They had had little contact with the Bosnians during their westward migration- only a smattering of guerilla attacks lacking in enthusiasm.

Apparently, the Serbian forces had already pushed the Bosnians all the way back to their capitol in a matter of months. The Bosnian military, along with their allies in Montenegro, had been badly beaten and had either dispersed, or taken refuge in Sarajevo or the countryside west of the city. Victory seemed absolute, but there were rumors that the U.N. had condemned the actions of Serbia, and was preparing to aid Bosnia. After his own actions across the last week, Niko was not so convinced that U.N. intervention was impossible.

Still walking, he turned and look back at the cluster of smoky pillars rising from behind a collection of hills into the gloomy overcast sky. They were coming from the village they had passed through the day before.

With the stories of brutality preceding them, Niko's unit, along with several other groups, marched through the village unopposed. The villagers were of the correct attitude that if they were to pose no opposition, they would not be harmed. However, it had become something of an unwritten law to degrade and punish civilians if they were Bosnian, and especially if they were Muslim. Accordingly, they proceeded to kill the village's livestock and burn the entire wealth of their abundant wheat fields.

Though the captain had become the undisputed figurehead of command, Mogadanastavic persisted as the group's leader in terms of inspiration and leadership. It was undeniable that he had changed since the execution of the prisoners. Whether by his own force of will or by his nature to stand out, he had become the most brutal and ruthless of their unit. In the village, he had taken both the lives for which the unit was responsible: a man born in Serbia who had moved to Bosnia and married a Muslim woman, for which he died, and an old woman who spit on him when he came to ransack her house. He was frightening to Niko's unit now, but he had once again claimed the mantle of leadership in another way.

Looking at the smoke, Niko felt some unpleasant emotion. He was unsure if it was guilt or pity. He turned away, walking alongside the vehicle, trudging through the mud. Looking around, the countryside reminded him of pictures from a history textbook which showed pictures of the French countryside during World War II. As a boy, as with any other boy, war seemed like the pinnacle of excitement. Acts of heroism and victory remained completely separate from the indifferent force of death.

He realized his war was different than the great clash in Europe decades ago, but he had a better understanding of the nature of war now. He had felt none of the excitement he envisioned. He 

had felt a mixture of emotions which he sometimes mistook for exhilaration, but looked very far away from it in retrospect. He'd felt terror, shame, hatred, sorrow, and even bloodlust at times. Now, he experienced a certain form of boredom. He no longer cared about anything to do with the war.

He continued walking. In a few more kilometers, he'd be able to switch with one of the men riding the transport, maybe then he could catch a bit of a nap.


	6. Chapter 6 Sarajevo

The Young and Stupid

Chapter 6 – Sarajevo

**AN: As always, none of the Rockstar, GTA material is in my ownership.**

As he had done with alternating frequency over the past several days, Niko Bellic sat at the edge of a personnel transport, back facing the cab of the truck, with his legs hanging over the edge. The canvas which covered the transport truck over a metal skeleton, had developed a rip which increased in size until they ripped it away entirely, leaving the back open. They had travelled along the same road since their departure from Bisrid, and had met with increasingly fewer settlements.

They had not been met with any opposition in a full three days, and had settled into an easy state of relaxation, despite the endless efforts of their captain to counteract this. Only the most dedicated or most insecure of the soldiers continued to remain alert, continually travelling with their rifles in a semi-ready position.

With the constant fear of ambush pushed away from Niko's mind, he found that he was able to appreciate the scenic ride through the Bosnian countryside. He was surprised by the fact that he now saw the beauty of the natural works of the Earth, where he had been previously oblivious and unimpressed. The gently rolling hills and farmlands gave way to jutting mountains on all sides, separated by various rivers, all of which seemed quite pure. The land was ideal to stage an ambush, but none had yet come, preserving Niko's perception of the area as profoundly tranquil.

The only thing which interrupted the peaceful scene at the moment was the amplified droning of a battery-powered stereo which Svijo had discovered in a previous town. He held it in his lap, sitting against the cab of the transport truck. For some odd reason, he had taken only two of the recordings he found with the stereo. The first was a scratchy _Led Zeppelin_ album, to which they had listened to the entire time, though the repetition of the album had driven them all to hate it. The second however, was a noisy British punk band, which all agreed was too horrid to tolerate.

Dragan, sitting beside Niko in a similar fashion, offered him an opened tin of chewing tobacco. He gratefully took a pinch and stuffed it under his tongue. It was a bitter taste which he did not enjoy much, but it kept away the sickening taste of a mouth left uncleaned for several weeks.

Once the stereo died down, the group was both relieved and crushed to discover that Svijo had no remaining batteries. The silence was uncomfortable, allowing the boys to think, which was an invariably unpleasant experience as none of them had anything bright to think on. To break the silence, they began to talk of their own futures. Goran hoped to become a doctor, Mita had the sole desire of marrying a beautiful woman, and Florian had the peculiar desire to become a professional wrestler, an idea greeted by cheerful laughs from the entire unit, including the generally humorless captain.

They began to prod Josef for his views, excited at what their leader might have planned for himself.

"Josef," Mijo inquired. "What about you, tell us about your glamorous future." The unit chuckled a bit, but Josef did not respond.

"Come on Josef!" Mijo persisted. "How about it? Going to marry some-" he pursed his lips and rose his hands to his chest and imitated a woman squeezing her own breasts. Josef spit and remained silent.

"Ah, spit it out man!" Mita called. Josef burst out.

"What do you want me to say?!" Josef barked, remaining turned away and stepping aggressively. He gripped the rifle sling tightly.

"What future do _any_ of us have?" he continued. "Alright, I'll humor you: I'm going to date some pretty girl, and one day, she'll ask 'why are you so strange?' What do I say? 'Maybe it's because I shot an old woman in the face. Maybe it's because I burned a man's crops and shot his cattle and left his family to starve to death, huh?!' What the _fuck _do you want me to say?! No matter where we go… this war is our future. We will always be the same soldiers, the killers… the murderers. Leave me the fuck alone." Josef walked ahead of them, out of sight in front of the slow-moving truck.

The unit was stunned into silence. The light mood evaporated, and nothing more was said. Automatically, they each turned to their own thoughts, which they dreaded. They were the same thoughts as Josef's. They continued on in silence, rotating spots on the truck as the sun slowly lowered herself down behind the jagged peaks of the landscape. The shadow of the mountains enveloped the road while the mountains to the East remained illuminated by the sun. They were caught in the shadow, unable to ever reach that place where the sun still shined.

It was then that they first heard a peculiar sound: a series of faint, tiny whip-like cracks, followed by a light thud. The boys each shouldered their rifles in frenzy when they first heard the sound, but became confused when the sound failed to produce a result. The sound repeated every several minutes, deepening its mystery. It was unlike gunfire, and similarly unlike bomb explosions. The sound grew in volume as they covered more ground and as the sun continued to die away, giving way to nighttime and a half-moon.

Walking to the right of the truck with his rifle now in the crook of his arm, Niko continued to look straight ahead, trying to ignore the discomforting sound. Once they rounded the base of a mountain and crossed yet another stone-bridge, Florian, beside him, got his attention.

"Niko!" he said, putting a hand on his shoulder. He pointed at an angle away from them, towards the faint horizon. "Look!" The horizon, where the mountain peaks met with the star-stricken sky, was flashing faintly. Some few seconds before the initial cracking noise, the sky ahead of them to the west flashed brightly for an instant. The disconnection between the peculiar sounds and the lightning-like flashes was disorienting to the boys, all of which who had taken notice. They watched, unable to make sense of the spectacle. After a few more minutes, the captain spoke.

"It's Sarajevo," he said simply. The boys looked to him, curious. "It's the city of Sarajevo. They're shelling it." Niko looked back to sight. Suddenly the war in which he fought grew exponentially. The shelling looked an entire world away. His conscious mind suddenly seemed too small, to limited to comprehend what he was seeing.

The spectacle had an almost drug-like effect on Niko. It was nothing short of surreal. He and the rest of his group watched in awe, struck stupid. Everything Niko thought he had learned about life and war seemed suddenly negated as the sheer mass of this conflict was laid before him. He, his unit, his entire battle-group, now seemed as small and insignificant as a bacterium in the ocean.

For that moment, bewildered and dazed, human life meant nothing to him.


	7. Chapter 7 A Unique Tragedy

The Young and Stupid

Chapter 7 – A Unique Tragedy

Milica Bellic reread the final paragraph of her son's letter. Away from critical eyes which might coerce her into stoicism, she wept freely.

Sitting at the table where both her sons had eaten a few months before, she felt the weight of her loneliness. Her sons' belongings remained littered about the house, too stinging to touch. She had covered most of the windows, living in an almost perpetually dim environment. Emotionally, she was deteriorating even further than she had thus far.

She was too stricken to speculate on the matter, but it had been something of a wonder that she had not killed herself in her grief. The day her sons were taken from her, she was driven into frenzied insanity, far beyond any sense of rationality. She had cleaned Aleksandar's body that evening with the help of her mother, who had immediately come from her home in nearby Kragujevac when called by a panicked neighbor to Milica.

Milica herself remembered little of the day, but she could afterwards detect traces of Aleksandar's blood stained into the floor and wall, leading her to darken the house to the point of near blackness.

A young neighboring family, the father of whom was also taken away to the war, brought food to her every day, and had once even coaxed her out of her house to have dinner with them. The woman, in her early twenties and with two very young children of her own, was heartbroken at Milica's sudden loss, and did her best to show her some compassion. Milica, despite her inconsolable mourning, was nevertheless quite grateful to the woman.

Though still far from stable, Milica still found some solace in the hope that Niko still lived. When the neighbor's children brought a letter from Niko after two months of despair, Milica was overwhelmed with emotion. That her son was alive was enough to cause her to thank God for the first time since the beginning of the war.

However, just as she was unimaginably relieved at her son's survival, she was at once heartbroken upon reading Niko's letter.

_Mother,_

_I am alright and alive. I went through training for a few weeks and they sent me to fight. I have thought a lot about you and Aleksandar. It is scary to be out here. Soldiers are trying to kill us, and we are trying to kill soldiers. Mother, the other day, I killed three men. I executed them myself. I shot them and they died. I didn't want to do it but I had to. The captain says I am doing the right thing, but I know this is just more government lies. I have killed innocent people, and I will probably kill more before I come home. But I don't know if I'm coming home. I'm sorry to worry you mother, but I am scared, and I can't _

_talk about it around the others. I just want to come home and go to school or go work on the old father's field. I don't want to fight the war anymore. I miss you, I hope I will come home soon._

_Love,_

_Your son Niko._

She was in tears by the end of the letter. Her poor child had been forced out of his youth. He was doing things men should do, and he was far from being a man. She sobbed, clutching the letter to her bosom. Both of her sons had been killed.


End file.
